The thing is, I’m tempted to tell her, far more tempted than I should be. And that makes her dangerous.
Who am I kidding? She’s been dangerous from the beginning. Because this woman makes me want things I have no business wanting.
“Did you screw me so you could get a story?” The words blurt out of my mouth like blood spurting from a wound.
Her mouth drops in horror. “What? No! I would never!”
But I didn’t need her reaction to realize that she wouldn’t stoop that low. I said it to push her away, because it’s getting harder and harder to pretend she’s not getting to me. She makes my carefully constructed world look like a maze of dominoes.
There’s a look of betrayal in her eyes, as there should be, and if I were a smart man, I’d let her resent me. I’d walk away and let her learn the hard way that I’m not the saint some of the club members want me to be. But I can’t.
“Sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to touch her. “That was out of line, Molly.”
Then, because it’s the only way I can stop myself from touching her, from relenting to the part of me that just wants to give in—to this thing with Molly, to the truth—I take off down the path, leaving her to follow again. The path is level here and we’re about fifty feet from the parking lot.
We reach the parking lot, and as much as I’d love to dash to my truck and leave, my mother taught me better manners—well, not how to treat a woman after you’ve fucked her against a tree. Somehow that never came up. More the conventional manners of saying goodbye. So I stand next to her car and wait for her to catch up.
I expect her to give me a hard time about racing away from her, but she just looks up at me and says, “Can I ask you one more thing?” with an earnest look that twists my insides.
“You can ask, but I might not answer.”
“Fair enough.” She steps closer, and I can feel her heat even though she’s shivering now that we’re in the open and have stopped moving.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her flush to my chest and stomach. When I see the surprise in her eyes, chased by a flash of lust that’s instantly reciprocated, I say, “You’re cold. I didn’t save your life just so you could die of hypothermia.”
“Is it possible to die of hypothermia in fifty-degree weather?” she asks with a sly smile.
“Just building up that good karma.”
“So will you?” The words are little more than a whisper, and the huskiness of her voice tells me I’m not the only one remembering our moment in the woods. “Answer a question, I mean?”
I’m about to tell her no, but I like the feel of her body against mine. So, like a damn fool, I say, “Only if you’ll answer one too.”
“On the record?” she asks playfully, but her hands are now resting on my chest. She presses her palms into my shirt as her fingers stretch and lightly stroke. I don’t know if she even realizes she’s doing it, but every nerve ending in my body is acutely aware.
“No. Off.”
She looks like she’s about to protest, but then she lifts her chin and her fingers stop their clever dance. “Fine. But I get to ask first.”
“Because you won’t answer unless I do,” I said dryly.
She grins and lifts her hand to tap my cheek, and the place on my chest where her fingers had rested feels cold and bereft. “And who said a man can’t have brawn and brains?”
I roll my eyes. “Ask already. I have an appointment, remember?”
“Okay,” she says. “Will you at least admit that you and your father started the club?”
I’m about to call off our deal, but if I answer this, maybe she’ll finally let this drop. “Off the record?”
“I already agreed. Spill.”
“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “We started it.”
The look of triumph on her face isn’t all that different from her expression when she found the condom package, and for some reason, it doesn’t sit well. Something ugly twists inside of me. I don’t like the idea that she might have used me after all. Not when she’s the first woman who’s intrigued me in years. The anger builds. I had no idea what I was going to ask her, but I find myself thinking about all those dates she went on for that website. About all of those foolish men who let themselves think they were special, different. Have I become one of them?
The ugliness grows, and before I can stop myself, I let her go and ask, “Have you ever been in a serious relationship in your life? Or has it just been a long string of men that you pretend to be interested in for the sake of a story?”
She takes a step back. The horror that fills her eyes means I’ve inflicted the pain I intended, but instead of providing the satisfaction the ugly part of me craves, it only makes me feel disgusted with myself.
I wince. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“Yes,” she says, looking me square in the eye. “But it’s probably the first honest thing you’ve said to me.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, starting to get annoyed, although I’m not sure who I’m annoyed at, myself or her. “You thought I was lying about the engineer?”
“Come on, Cal,” she says with a sigh. “This is about more than just the Bad Luck Club, and we both know it. Other people might not have figured that out, but I’m no fool.”
No, she’s obviously not, and I was stupid to ever play this game.
“I’m not perfect,” she continues, “as you’ve so generously pointed out, but I’ve never pretended to be.”
Her tone sounds like an accusation. “I’ve never claimed to be perfect, Molly,” I say defensively. “If I were, don’t you think I would have been first in line to call Augusta a liar?”
Understanding flashes in her eyes, and I realize that in the last thirty seconds, I’ve given her more to work with than in any of our previous interactions.
“Maybe you should have been doing more self-work in the Bad Luck Club,” she says. “Are you familiar with the saying, ‘Physician, heal thyself’?”
Before I have a chance to respond—not that I know how to answer—she plucks her bag from my hand. Then she gets in her car and drives away without a second glance.
Chapter Thirteen
Molly
I fell in love once. Once was enough.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
“Fuck ’im,” Tina says loudly, swaying her martini glass in a perilous manner.
“I did,” I say. “That’s sort of the problem.”
“No,” she says, “the problem is that you like him. The sex sounds shockingly good, if I’m being honest.”
The screwed-up thing is that she’s right. Despite everything, despite what he said to me and what I said to him, I do like him. I see the hurt in Cal. I see the layers of good and bad like a spotted onion. Like he said, he’s not perfect. Sure, he was a bit of a dick earlier, but don’t wounded animals lash out at the very people who want to bandage them?